Charlie Brown's Fuck Toy

One minute you are at the top of your game. You're rereading the "Denial Of Death." You're finishing projects before they are due. Both of your legs are shaved. You are alive. You're going to master Spanish on your 15 minute breaks. Or French. Or both. Fuck it. Italian. You're going to master Italian. Che grande! You just recorded three new songs and made videos for each one. You are engaging in seedy agri-centric rapport with your witty neighbor and doing Google image searches for drills. How random. Che bello! Your hair is doing that effortless 70's porn star feather thing. You cheered your mother up. You love your friends. You're corresponding with your younger cousin again. Your tax refund came early so you can find the perfect bear suit. You're starting a series of comedic "How To" videos with your friend. YOU ARE ON FIRE. You drew 17 pictures over the weekend. You have flowers in your hair and cheese in the fridge. You are writing again. You're eating grapes. You're wearing fabrics that look like silky whispers. You are Venus. You have everything you need. Sure there are those mysterious and humanizing dizzy spells, heart murmurs and anxiety attacks but you swear you'll make that doctor's appointment soon enough. It's only been six years. YOU'RE FINE. Just revel in the moment. Eat another grape. Tell it to your therapist. Appreciate the fact that you haven't cried in the shower once this week.

The next minute you wake up and cry in the shower because you miss your dog and want to time travel back to Portland to throw the ball to him a few more times. His little paws would get so muddy. Your hair is filthy now. You think you have a cavity. YOU KNOW YOU HAVE A CAVITY. You are house sitting on the west side and haven't had a real conversation with anybody in days. You lost your joint. You feel hung over but haven't been drunk since December. You stopped to smell the flowers but you also stopped to punch one of those grand opening balloons FOR NO REASON. You sent an angry text to your ex because you were triggered by a squirrel video. That didn't go so well. You've had classier moments. You are petty and impulsive. You drank too much coffee and walked 15 blocks too far because you're subconsciously trying to get away from yourself. Your feet hurt. EVERYTHING HURTS. All of your ideas are stupid. You come on too strong. You're a terrible writer. Why are you sharing your writing again? Your drawings are ridiculous. Nobody is going to buy that book. Why did you wear such a short dress today? This isn't a ZZ Top video and you don't like anybody at your work in a ZZ Top video kind of way. What do you want? Nobody is calling you. Nobody is fucking you. Nobody is thinking about you. People are driving like assholes. Why is everybody such an idiot on this side of L.A.? Who makes these billboards? That's a terrible movie premise. Oh wait. That's a Syphilis PSA. Why is everyone wearing cologne? Why is everyone so exhausting? Bunch of philistines! Simpletons! Ding dongs! You are so hungry but food sounds terrible. Is that another fucking Yogurtland? You want to move to the woods. You are sick of garbage. You are sick of yourself. You are pretty sure your ulcer is back. You are trying your best. You want to cry on somebody's shoulder but you have no idea what you're crying about. You also want them to cry with you. You feel guilty for feeling so doomed all the time because you have things infinitely better than most.

Your heart is always beating. You heart is always breaking. You walked too far again.